In One Night
by Raggazzed12
Summary: All it takes is one night away from home-and this being a normal happening in his case-and Albert's life is changed entirely. A one-shot for (my-but not my round) competition forum (the Newsies Pape Selling Competition, check it out) for circulation 3. This is also a basic outline for a larger project I plan on working on soon once other fics are complete-described further in A/N.


**A/N: So this is something I've never done before. I took it upon myself to let my trusty forum mod. Emador to lead us on in the next circulation for my forum (Newsies Pape Selling Competition, check it out, we need recruits and such, and as the admin, I know what I'm talking about) and so here I am writing a one-shot for it.**

 _ **Task: Pick a newsies and write about a time before he was a newsie.**_

 _ **The adult I chose was Snyder.**_

 **I decided to take on the task of writing the pre-life of *drum roll* Albert! It was a random selection, who can blame me? Anyways, it was either him or Crutchie, and heavens knows I've done a lot of Crutchie fics. Time to give a different guy a shot. (Also when I saw the show on B-way two years ago (urgh) I saw Danny Quadrino as Albert, and then recently I saw Wicked and he was in it, so…yeah. I feel like I owe him something for being such a great ensemble member and making me so freaking hype and fangirl at the show a few weekends ago.) Also in the author's note at the bottom, there's a new piece of info down there because I've decided this will be my large writing project. A separate fic, but it will basically be the origin story for Albert I guess, I have no idea what I'm calling it, but the idea came to me as I wrote this so I'm really excited now.**

The cold winter night swept across the streets of Crown Heights; a resting place he believed was the best at the moment. It had been a long day of running and working and running again, and at least for his 8 year old legs, it was too much. With his father out and about on the town all of the time, Albert could never quite tell if he was going to have a working day or not. It all depended on what way the wind went that day.

If the wind blew to the south, it was going to be a relaxing day. If it blew to the north, it was a working day. The southeasterly wind meant that he would work morning, scrounge evening, and northeasterly wind meant scrounge morning, work evening. The other two directions were left completely on their own, as his father had said they weren't to be bothered with. Generally, Albert was forced to work on days they blew any other direction. He had to find a place to sleep on the nights he worked; this morning the wind had blown to the northeast, and that had been enough to set his father off about what he needed to do that day.

'The life of a grocer,' and his father would stop and pause, drawing Albert's attention to him completely, little scrawny figure leaning toward the larger man, 'need not be wasted on anything but what one considers worthy.'

None of it made any sense, but immediately after that explanation, father always rubbed his thick black hair and called him 'Al' and told him to run off now and get to work. It was always the answer to the questions that arose in the morning of a northeasterly wind, and it was always the same answer. Al had the minor hope that perhaps, perhaps one day he would wake up and the answer would be completely different. It had to change at some point, did it not? Didn't everything change?-but he never dared to ask his father of this, for he knew the answer would be a shrug. Maybe not everything changed. Albert was not too sure, and he was also not very sure he wanted the answer.

Now, as he had traveled around Brooklyn all day, it seemed that this was the best resting place anything could afford. In an alley, he had found a broken down seat cushion, which was probably the best thing Al had ever found during a night search as he called it. There was a small loaf of bread in the messenger bag he carried, and he pulled it out and ate it with such hunger it was almost as if he was starving. The appearance of such a boy might lead one to actually believe he was starving, but perhaps not. Perhaps, maybe, it was just the way he gobbled down the food like any 7 year old boy did.

And as soon as he was done that evening, he settled down into the cushion, shut his eyes, and counted in his head to get to sleep. Counting was the only way Albert ever fell asleep, strange though it was, but it was. It was comforting, something to hold onto for a little while in the world of living beings, until he would drift off into a sleep and all the numbers were forgotten until the next night.

A shout caused him to arise the following morning, the sunlight peeping into the alleyway. Most of the sun was blocked by a tall man with a grimy old face, and he was staring down at Albert like he was a rat. It was not scary until the boy got a good look at him, and then he tried his best to back into the wall.

The man was older, definitely, even older than his own father, but not too old. He wore a fine black suit and was carrying something in his hand, something Albert began to fear very, very much. It looked like a long, rope-like cord. When the man came closer, he realized it was a whip of some sort. Instead of running like perhaps he should have, Albert sat still, breathing frantically.

"What are you doing out here, boy?" A costly bit of word that scared the younger boy further.

"I…I was jus'…me father…" Sputtering in spite of himself; now that was going to cause this to end horribly.

"You don't have a father, now do you? An orphan."

"Nah, sir, I ain't an orphan, I'm jus' workin' for me father," lungs were now gasping for as much air as the alley supplied, "an' settled heah for the night."

"You're too young to work in such conditions. Now if you'll just let me take you by the hand, boy-"The old man started approaching him with increasing speed.

Now was the time to run-if there ever was-and run he did. Despite the sleep still bursting through his body, his legs began working like magic the minute he got up. All those times spent running between deliveries did a good job on working one's cardiovascular strength. For the first time in his short little life, Al actually thanked his father for all the work he was put through, since surely no man as old as that could follow him at this speed.

Nearly to the next block and he had already lost sight of the man. A phenomenon if there ever was! What a man like that was doing around here, well, Albert didn't want to know. He absolutely did not want to know, no questions needed to be asked. Whips were bad, and men in black suits were bad, and the two combined were a terror not heard of. Until now-of course.

Right up Albany Avenue he ran. It was more of a tearing run, at this point, and did he ever run; it was so fast that at times he was sure he had overturned a cart or two on the way there. Few people were out at this time just yet, but he still was careful to avoid fellow pedestrians. Too much commotion could cause attention. Attention was always the last thing a person wanted, and in the moment, it was the absolute number one last thing Albert wanted. His skinny little legs were working faster and harder than ever, and it wasn't until he arrived at the crossway known as St. Mark's Avenue to St. John's Park that he actually slowed down. It appeared the black suited man was no longer in sight.

The whispers of a thousand street traders came back to him in that moment. Whispers of a terror known to all of them as "the Refuge". It was accordingly a place of nightmare and none of what was said about it should ever, ever, be mistaken as a lie. All the stories that came out of it were undoubtedly true. A few boys he had met on the occasion, older ones who liked to scare little boys who traveled on their own, had told him once of a boy who had been killed by a whip in the front room of the Refuge. He had told Al about the screams that had echoed through the halls. And then suddenly, everything had gone silent as the boy died. Perhaps not the most horrifying story to come out of the dreaded place; but it was one of the nastiest.

Agents of the place never came to Brooklyn. At least, that's what he'd been told countless numbers of times by the same street boys. If they did it meant trouble had begun to brew somewhere with some of the 'newsies' who were notorious for ending up in the vile house. Albert had grown to love the stories of the newsboys of Brooklyn, the ones infamous for their many deeds. There was a boy not terribly much older than himself named Spot Conlon who was gaining fame as time went on. Al had of course heard of him. But he had never questioned where these boys were stationed or why they demanded on rooting up so much trouble, since the Refuge was in Manhattan.

The terrifying thought remained on his mind as he made his way back to the storefront. Albert was never able to identify where the wind was blowing, so he was forced to go back to his father every morning no matter how far the distance. It made a good way to catch one's breath. This way he wouldn't arrive looking as disheveled as he felt, and his father would not inquire what had occurred to make him so faint.

The store was on Bergen Street, a fairly remote part of town. The minute he arrived he could tell something was horribly wrong. Trucks lined the street-but not just normal trucks; they were the sort that put out the fires. Fear began creeping up his spine. Something like this surely couldn't happen, not something so awful that he didn't want to believe it. Where was his father?

Albert began to run again, reaching the store and then stopping short. It was in flames as he had feared and there were men shouting everywhere. The whole thing was truly a spectacle to see, but it was also the worst come true. Where was his father?

The question now ingrained upon his mind, he ran up to the man leaning against the nearest truck that was being used for water and he pulled the man's sleeve in anticipation.

"Ay, what is it, little boy?" The man gave a reproachful look for almost no reason at all.

"Me…me father, he runs this place, an'…where is he?!" Urgency echoed all around the words he spoke, urgency unlike any he had felt before.

"You're the kid! Oh shit-sorry, young sir. What's your name?"

"Albert." He looked at the man with fleeting annoyance; he needed to know where his father was immediately.

"Your father…" The man looked around as if for help. Albert felt something prick behind his eyes, and yet he pushed the prickle down.

Another suited man came up, and gave a look over at Albert, a man Albert recognized only because he was a very ordinary customer of the store.

"Albert, come here." With a gentle tug, the ordinary man pulled him over, and kneeled down to eye-level. "Your father was not aware of the fire until … until it was too late. I'm sorry, young man, I should have kept an eye out for you, and I should have known this was going to be a topic…"

Without another word, Albert began running again. He heard the shouts: oh yes, he heard all of the shouts, and the pleas, and the cries, begging him to come back so they could take care of him. So he could be safe. But that was to no avail, now was it? Everything quite literally had gone up into flames all so suddenly. His frayed nerves could take no more of it, after the man in the alleyway, and the flames in his father's store-father was gone. The thought struck and immediately rebounded out of his head.

There was not a tear shed by him as he ran, he was completely and utterly emotionless. Everything was drained out of him as he ran; all the energy he might've gained overnight was gone. Back down the streets he came from; except this time, Albert didn't register that these were the same streets at all. They felt different because now they had a different purpose. Now it was with mourning and despair that he made his way through them.

Even the alley felt different. Except not different, for suddenly he ran into the tall, black suited man. As if the old man had figured out he would return on some whim of some sort. What had Albert ever done to deserve the attention of the law? He figured surely this was a mistake, for the man suddenly had his arms behind his back and was dragging him away. Yet he did not kick, and he did not scream. All the energy was gone. All completely and utterly gone.

The carriage they entered into was completely different from what Al was used to. So far in his short life he had only been in very cheap ones, due to his father's ability to pay what he could for anything at all. This was an expensive one. The man who owned it had money. But he was thrown into the back seat with another boy, another boy close to his age who looked at him in wonder. Still Albert remained silent, from shock and from terror. He refused to scream. That would bring upon too much attention. His father had warned him of attention. It was a thing to be avoided. It was not to be brought upon one's self. So he did not need to scream.

"Yousef a street trader of some sort?" The boy beside him had darker hair like his own and seemed to be only about two years or so older than the 8 year old himself. A 10 year old causing havoc? It sounded unrealistic. But then again, Albert was only 8 and he was being taken along with this man.

"Yeah." It was a truth. For once he needed to say truth.

"I'm Spot Conlon." The boy spat into a hand, for some reason his were not tied behind his back like Albert's had become, and held it out, then took it back as he apparently saw the predicament the younger boy was in.

"Albert."

"Ya gotta have done something ta end up heah." Spot gave him a sort of mystified look. "You don' look like someone who done something bad."

"I…I don't know why I heah." Albert gave a soft sigh, product of having managed to get a hand a little less tangled underneath his back. Mostly he was stunned at having met Spot Conlon, the child newsie who was apparently a prodigy for trouble.

"Aw, what a shame." Spot almost acted older than he was. That appeared to be his trick: most likely it was what had landed him in this situation in the first place. A smart-ass was definitely going to end up in a place like the Refuge.

"We ain't…where are we goin'?" He hated asking it of course for it sounded stupid. The worry did not escape Spot's notice, but the other boy did not mention it at all and instead gave a small smile.

"The one place we ain't supposed ta go anyway. The Refuge."

It sounded just as threatening as when boys told stories about it and with the way Conlon said it, it sounded like absolute hell. Al was almost certain he would die in the back of the carriage and save them time from doing it themselves, whoever they were. They had some correlation to the man seated in the front driving the whole thing to the horrible destination. They probably knew why he was here in the first place. It wasn't that Albert had ever stolen anything in his short lifespan; it seemed unlikely that was the reason. His father was a respectable man. He had heard it said multiple times; and after a while, it became more true than anything Al had heard in a long while.

There was only a reign of silence after this; neither boy seemed to be in the mood for talking. Al didn't mind at all, for his thoughts were on the topic at hand. What would happen to them was a fearful prospect and it scared him a lot. It had always scared him a lot. That was a true fact; it was the only fact about him that he was sure of anymore. The Refuge was a horrifying place and it was the one thing that scared him the most and always would. Al hated it, he detested that he was scared; he loathed it to the furthest point of himself.

Suddenly they stopped-so suddenly he was almost thrown forward into the driver's seat. The dark man came around and pulled them both out with two hands. Al felt his whole body begin shaking and he could tell Spot was just as scared but wasn't letting him onto it. It obviously wasn't a feeling the other boy liked. Who did like it? It wasn't a good feeling, absolute terror.

The man dragged them by the collar-which was painful and a description Al once thought he'd never have to use-to the door of the dark, tall building that stood in the way of the rest of the city. It blocked out everything with its enormous stature. Albert refused to let out a whimper and it was quite obvious Spot was doing the same. What a horrible occurrence this was!

Then the office came at them and with it came the one man whose name was whispered on the streets in fear. Not a single soul who saw him lived to tell of it: this was the story that went with the name. Almost an urban legend, but a true urban legend that stuck with every boy who worked or lived on the streets till they were old enough to not fear the Refuge. Any boy who did end up escaping the Refuge, although it had only been recorded once and Al knew for a fact that boy was a good bit older and not here now, would tell of the horrible things that had happened. This boy (who may have been a fake one made up for all those who had made it out in time, but as it was known, he was the only Brooklyn kid to come back) had started everything. The stories of whippings, hard factory work that few were used to, and even deaths of smaller boys. Al considered himself as a smaller boy-although he didn't like to-and it was a terrifying prospect that as such a person, he would face everything with more suffering.

Snyder.

(The Spider. But not a nickname anyone used when he was around or to his face.)

Snyder advanced on them with a glint in his eye and a smile that could have killed a thousand rats. Or perhaps innocent field mice, to Albert, rats were evil. They were standing now, and Spot had his hands folded behind his back and was staring Snyder down. Al had to avert his eyes-the evil look on the man's face was too much to bear. It was almost like it caused pain by sending off waves of evil. Dreadful things. Awful things. This man had seen much and done more. Done what? Obviously whippings and maybe a murder here and there. Although the deaths were usually of what had happened the boys, no one was straight up murdered.

But from the looks of this man, Albert had a little doubt that he would murder a child that went out of line. He kept his eyes averted, scared it would turn him evil himself or something. Spot was still staring at him. The boy was fearless, that was what Al knew for sure. This was the man that had wanted him for ages, and here he was, staring him down and giving a good old fashioned look that clearly stated he didn't care what happened to him, he would not break. There was a reason Spot was the most wanted newsie in the entirety of Brooklyn. And it was very clear here.

"Send them to the North." Al saw Spot give a little flinch out of the corner of his eye. The North side was the worst place to be.

"Both of them, Snyder, sir?" The thug sounded unsure, and Al knew it was because he wasn't one of the guilty. He had just been picked up.

"Both. I don't care where you got either of 'em." Snyder said this with such a sneer, Albert once again averted his eyes. He had almost looked at the man-but it was too much.

The thug picked them both up by the collar again and carried them up a flight of stairs and through a hall and then up a flight of stairs again and through a door and then down a hall-Albert lost track of where they were by the end of it. Clearly the entire building was designed as something that could never be exited. And by the end of it all, Spot still hadn't uttered a word, so neither did he. It was too much anyways. The stench and the fear of it all-Al still was in shock from what happened to his father. The room they entered in was obviously the sleeping room but it was so small…

It was in this moment that Albert decided whatever he did, he would break out of this place if it took him his life. And as they were set down on the floor, he saw Spot look over at him, and they both made a silent agreement. They would survive and they would not succumb to the Refuge. The Refuge would succumb to them.

 **A/N: Alright, well I hope you enjoyed that. Thanks for reading! As I wrote this, I decided this was going to be my writing project once I'm finished my other two fics. This is just a draft for that, it'll be in much more detail in the final project than in this one, and I've decided: I'm centering around Albert. Because I feel like it. So look out for a really large (hopefully) fanfic from me coming in a little while, I promise it will be soon. Thanks again, I hope you enjoyed and please, review, review, review!**


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